Mrs. Freylock said something. He leaned toward her. “I beg your pardon?”
She pantomimed plucking. “Flowers, Mr. Oades. What sort would you prefer?”
“My wife enjoyed her roses,” Henry said. For a light-headed half moment he thought to correct himself. Enjoys. My wife enjoys her roses. He was deliriously tired, and missing her so.
Something was said then about the funeral biscuits, but Henry did not retain it. He was allowed to leave finally. The same hackie drove him back to the Germans’, where the stench of cooking cabbage reached even his small attic room. He vomited into the empty basin and swiped his mouth. Minutes later the downstairs girl knocked on his door. He vomited again, and then let her in to take the basin. Her elfin face pinched in disgust. But he was past caring what others might think.
THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY he drove himself to the service. His hands trembled on the reins; they were freezing, despite the heavy black gloves, despite the unseasonably warm weather. He wished the day over and done with.
A large crepe bouquet with a card attached was fixed to the Freylocks’ front door. Henry approached, squinting to read the names of his wife and children. The loss flooded. He would never see them again, never touch them or be touched by them. His weakened leg bowed and began to give way. He clutched the knocker to keep from falling. The door opened. Mrs. Freylock caught him and ushered him inside, where the perfume of cut flowers—roses, daylilies, and glads—put sparks in his vision and started a jabbing headache behind his right eye. Good God, they were stashed in vases everywhere.
“Please sit, Mr. Oades. It’s all so difficult, I know.”
Henry sat, and then stood again. “I’m fine,” he said. “If I may have a moment to collect myself, please, Mrs. Freylock.”
She excused herself, leaving him alone in the sweet humid darkness. The heavy curtains were drawn, the clocks stopped at six o’clock, the imagined time of their deaths. The mirrors were covered in the old-fashioned superstitious manner, to prevent his family’s spirits from becoming lost in their own reflections.
Meg’s closed coffin lay on three straight-back chairs against the north wall. A pair of lighted candles had been placed at her head. He went to her, wondering if the Freylocks had looked inside, as he was tempted to do one last time. He had an aching need for her, a painful desire to see her whole and naked, with her hair loose and long. He wept, stroking the coffin lid as he might her lovely flank. “You’re the best girl,” he whispered. “The very best girl.”
The mourners began arriving at eleven, in twos and fours. By half past the air was thick with their scented hush. Henry stood sentry alongside the coffin, accepting condolences. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over.
Cyril Bell took him by surprise. Henry had not seen him come in. Bell stepped up smart, bringing forth the simpering matron on his arm. “May I present Mrs. Wells.” There was a lewd flush to Bell, an obscene glint in his eye. “She’s walked in our same sad shoes, Mr. Oades.”
A widow then, evidently recovered quite nicely from her own grief. She clung to Bell as if he were a sweepstakes prize. Batting eyelashes and painted puckered lips. Would he marry her, take her to his wife’s still warm bed? Look at the blatant creature. She’d accept in a wink, wouldn’t she? Seeing them together deepened Henry’s sadness. There was only rot everywhere he looked, both malignant and ordinary. He thought it time to leave these lawless islands, home to the Maori and the debauched pair standing before him.
HE ORDERED A memory stone to be placed over Meg’s grave. Two months later, Henry went alone to the cemetery. He saw that his wife’s and children’s names were spelled correctly and then he left. He didn’t like the place, with its imposing spiked fence and brown grass. There was no comfort to be found among the blank-eyed stone cherubs, no peace. God knows, he did not feel his family there.
He returned to work, but still could not concentrate on the ledgers. On Monday, the distillery’s caretaker quit his post. Henry impulsively asked to replace him.
“Fancy emptying the slops of your underlings, do you?” said Mr. Freylock.
Henry ignored the sarcasm. He knew what the lowly job entailed. “May I or may I not have the post, sir?”
Mr. Freylock sighed. “You’ll last a week, if that.”
HENRY BEGAN coming in earlier and leaving later. He checked the rattraps first thing every morning, tossing the carcasses into the bin to be burned. Next he swept and cleaned the lavatories. He appreciated the mindless hard work; it allowed him not to think. Nights he spent at the Germans’. The old couple rarely bothered him. He ate supper in the frau’s kitchen, and then went straight to bed, too tired to read. He stayed at the same routine for nearly six months, until the purposelessness won out. He presented his resignation in writing.
Mr. Freylock peered over his spectacles. “You’re leaving altogether?”
“I am, sir.”
“Returning home, then?”
Henry shook his head. He’d written to Meg’s parents finally, and was not about to compound their anguish or his own by returning to England alone. “I’m off to America.” How foreign it sounded said aloud. “To San Francisco, California, to be precise.”
“Why there of all godforsaken places? I have an acquaintance who’s been. It’s a filthy city. Chock full of thieves and cutthroats. Nothing but the lowest class of humanity.”
“No worse than here,” Henry said flatly. “I sail on Saturday.”
“What are your plans upon arrival?”
“I’ve none at present.”
“You’ve truly gone round the bend, Henry.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
He might have gone to Mexico or Argentina; but the ship to America was due to leave port first. Had a ship sailed for China that morning, he’d be gone.
ON SATURDAY, the Germans insisted on a hearty farewell breakfast, and Henry got off later than planned. The men’s hatch was nearly full by the time he came on board. He walked the smoky narrow aisles between the tiers of bunks, searching out an empty.
“Here’s one, mister.” An American kid called from the across the way, pointing to the berth just beneath him. “Better come claim it.”
The kid introduced himself. “Willy Morgan.” He watched Henry take out Meg’s jar and wrap it in his spare flannel. “What’s in the jug?” He hung over the edge of his berth, exhaling a rotten onion stench. “Strange thing to be bringing along,” he said.
Henry paid him no mind. He returned the jar to his satchel, placing the satchel at the foot end, where he could keep an eye on it.
Willy Morgan continued to study Henry. “You’re not one of those funny types, are you? If you are, let’s get one thing straight here and now.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve come across a few in my travels. More girl than boy, some of them. Can’t fault a genuine man for asking, mister. I was only making certain. The ladies’ jug and all.”
“It belonged to my wife, if it’s any of your concern, which it decidedly is not.”
The rancid lad laughed, mocking him. “Which it decidedly is not.”
It took no time to discover that the boy was the cheery sort, with a lust for camaraderie equaling Henry’s desire for solitude.
That first night at sea Willy thrashed above, nattering without letup. The lamps were out. The men were preparing to sleep. “They say,” said Willy, “that a man can live two hundred and fifty years in California.”
Henry punched his hard pillow and turned to the wall. “Who in God’s name would wish it?”
“Just making conversation,” said Willy. “Did I say I was foolish enough to believe it? There’s plenty that do, though. I knew a crazy old man once. He was—”
“Jesus,” hissed Henry. “Go to sleep now.”
Somewhere in the dark a man gasped and began breathing heavily, with obvious building pleasure. Willy let out a nervous giggle and whispered, “Funny types. They’re everywhere, I tell you.”
Henry sai
d nothing. He was sick to death of all types.
A Deal
STINKING MEN penned together will scrap out of boredom. They were three weeks out to sea. It didn’t take much to incite them these days. Henry was lying on his berth reading when that night’s brawl started. A dozen unwashed brutes fell in, cursing and hollering. Henry made his escape quickly, climbing up the ladder to the outside with Willy close behind.
They went around to the stern. Henry preferred it here, particularly on a starry phosphoric night like this. The wake had a mesmerizing effect, allowing him to drift from himself at times. He’d talked to the boatswain about a life at sea. “You don’t strike me as the sort,” the sailor said without explanation. Offended at first, Henry had gone away thinking perhaps he was right. There was precious little privacy aboard. He was forever seeking it out and failing.
Willy leaned precariously over the rail. “Idiots,” he said, of their hatch mates.
“Cretins,” Henry agreed. “Mind your footing, lad. I shan’t be going in after you.”
Willy fell back again and offered a cigarette.
Henry refused out of habit. He hadn’t smoked since the deaths of his children. Nor had he touched spirits, not since killing a bottle waiting for them to return, that first night in the cottage. At the time he said no more, never again. It had seemed a sin to enjoy himself. But the Lenten sacrifice lacked meaning lately. Sot or saint, they weren’t coming back either way.
He wondered if Mexico might have been the better choice. One can live on the cheap there, he’d been told. The natives aren’t as bothersome, it was said, as rudely inquisitive as the Americans. He could always go. If California didn’t suit him; if nothing purposeful turned up. Christ, did it gnaw. What was he to do next?
Willy cleared his throat. Henry willed him to keep his adolescent thoughts to himself. What did an untethered lad have to ponder? Twenty years old, if that. Henry was married at his age. The first, a stillborn boy, was on the way. John came next, beautiful lad.
Willy stared intently at the water. “Ever have the temptation to jump in headfirst?”
“No.” But Henry had, more than once. He imagined a swift cold shock, the terror over in an instant.
Willy drew on his cigarette. “It’s like those Siren beauties. Do you know about them?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. You’re the bookish type. Let me guess. A schoolteacher?”
“No.” A shooting star, first one, then another, arced and died in the southern sky. The grandeur brought a rise of tears to Henry’s eyes. He thought of John running about the yard with his homemade sextant, taking sightings, meticulously jotting down his findings.
“Those Sirens will sing to a fellow,” said Willy, “lure him right into the drink.”
“I believe their primary occupation is shipwrecking,” said Henry.
“I beg to differ, sir. Odysseus…do you know him?”
“Yes.” Henry had found Homer too fanciful, Odysseus’s exploits too preposterous. He was fifteen when he read The Odyssey, in love with Verdi and all things Italian.
“Well,” said Willy, “Odysseus lashed himself to the mast because he feared the Siren would get to him, don’t you see. I don’t think he was all that worried about his ship.”
“Perhaps,” murmured Henry, recalling the sting of his father’s strap against the back of his legs. The headmaster had reported him a daydreamer. Flighty thinking could be beaten from a boy. His bickering parents had agreed upon that much at least.
Willy asked, “Do you know much about wicked women, sir?”
A peculiar question from a peculiar boy. “Not a thing.”
“You say things in your sleep. I thought you might.”
Henry glanced sideways. “Such as?”
Willy whined, “Please, Meg,” embarrassing Henry. “Things like that.” He flicked his cigarette overboard. “Mine ran off. I miss her something fierce. I’d also like to shoot her dead. Her and the goddamned skunk that stole her.”
“You’re young,” said Henry.
“Sure,” Willy snapped. “I’ve got my whole life ahead. I’ll find another. Is that what you’re about to say? I’ll find a sweet girl who will do right by me, is that it?” He spat an angry glob over the rail. “I don’t want anyone else. I want my goddamned Polly.”
Henry felt for him, though what was there to say? Yes, lad, I understand completely. There’s no such thing as a settled life. Endure the day, get on to the next. Enjoy the sea if you can. Enjoy your smoke. Enjoy a grand void of the bowels. Try to sleep. Try not to dream. It’s the best you can do.
A pleasant breeze was kicking up. Henry considered sleeping on deck and inviting cuckolded Willy to do the same. He felt himself turning soft, involuntarily paternal. He patted the boy’s narrow shoulder and changed the subject. “What shall you do in California?”
A resigned sadness passed over Willy’s bony features. “My great-uncle owns a dairy farm in Berkeley. I’ll be doing time there.”
“Where is Berkeley?”
“Near San Francisco. Just across the bay. It’s a dandy place if you happen to be a cow.”
“Benign creatures, aren’t they?” said Henry.
Willy snorted a laugh. “Bay-nine?”
“Placid,” said Henry. “Tranquil.”
Willy shrugged, lighting another cigarette. “If you say so. They sleep, they eat, they shit. I stayed a month. This was after I got out of jail. How can a man be punished for abducting his own goddamned wife? I didn’t abduct her, anyway. I just put her in a wagon, tried to talk a little common sense into her deaf and dumb skull. So they locked me up. All right. I get out and can’t find her anywhere. I was in a low position. I let my pap talk me into going down to the crazy uncle’s farm. I stayed a month, like I say, then shipped out, got all the way to New Zealand. But that didn’t work out. So here I am. I promised my folks I’d stay put this time, give the farm a year. I know what my pap’s up to. He figures I’ll forget all about her. He’s wrong. I won’t.”
Henry closed his eyes. He appreciated the briny wind on his face and Willy’s fragrant smoke wafting his way. “I want to go home,” said Willy. “Show her the man I’ve become. Give her another chance. Pap says she’s no good, not worth it.”
Henry asked, “Did the girl not marry the skunk?”
“How could she? We’re not divorced. She can’t get it done by proxy, can she?” Willy answered himself. “Naw. Hell no, she can’t. I have rights. I learned a thing or two at sea. I’ve been at it better than three months now, by the way.” The information came with lifted chin and shoulders. The lad enjoyed a brief moment of pride before his shoulders sagged. “Goddamn,” he whispered to himself, flicking another cigarette into the sea. “Turns out I don’t have a seaman’s constitution. The captain put me off in Wellington, told me to try something else.”
“You needn’t take one bloke’s word for it,” said Henry.
“He was right,” said Willy. “I’m no damn good at it.” He turned to go back down.
“Why not sleep on deck tonight.”
“Naw,” said Willy. “The stern’s the worst place to be with a weak belly.”
Alone, Henry stretched out, hugging himself. It was cold. The stars dazzled. He lay awake thinking about his family, holding their faces in his mind one by one, weeping for each individually. He saved John for last. His son loomed painfully large tonight.
IN THE MORNING, over watery porridge, he asked Willy about dairy farming. The other men had breakfasted and left. They were alone but for a small platoon of Hindu coolies tidying up.
“There’s not much to tell,” said Willy, with his usual shrug. “They’re milked, let out, run back in, milked again. Why are you asking?”
“Numbers,” said Henry, scribbling down an imaginary column with his spoon. “It’s all I’ve done, all I know. I fancy a change.”
“Believe me, mister, there’s nothing fancy about dairy farming. It’s hard, backbreaking, putrid work
. The strongest lye soap won’t get rid of the evil shit stench.”
“I don’t expect I’d mind,” said Henry, envisioning wide green acres.
Willy put the porridge bowl to his face and licked the interior clean. His wispy young billy goat beard came away with gray curds clinging. “I expect you would,” he said. “It’s downright miserable. No neighbors within spitting distance. The townies turn up their noses, cross to the other side of the street.”
“I’ve no interest in a social life,” said Henry. He pictured lowing, nodding animals, a serene absence of humanity.
Willy drummed his spoon on the rim of his tin bowl. “A man can get lonesome.”
Henry shook his head. He was lonely for no one but his family.
Across the room, a coolie with a tub of dirty crockery stared their way, obviously wanting them gone. The men in the hatch were treated as nuisances, freight that required feeding. Henry met the lackey’s eye and took a lazy bite of cold porridge. He was in no mood to be dictated to. “I keep my own company,” he said to Willy.
Willy’s chapped lips pursed in contemplation. “I’ve got a proposal for you.” The sulky coolie approached. “Shoo fly,” said Willy, flapping his hand in dismissal. “We’re busy.” The coolie retreated with a scowl, making a racket of collecting beakers and bowls at the next table. Willy leaned in.
“Out with it,” said Henry.
“Say I set you up with my uncle. He’s not as bad as I let on, by the way. You just have to get to know him, learn what to ignore. And the cows, they’re just like you say. Bay-nine. Sweet things, named after flowers. Daffodil’s the friendliest. So say I get him to take you on.”
Henry felt a pump of excitement. “I suppose I’d catch on.”
Willy rolled his milky-blue eyes. “Any numskull would.” He blushed pink. “Sorry, sir.”
Henry disregarded the slight. “I know nothing about farm life.”
“Surely you’ve milked a cow or two in your time.”
The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel Page 8